


i always remember your smile

by ladyalys



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author is Asexual, Childhood Memories, Cooking, Crying, Cuddling, Fluff, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Secret Santa, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Three C's, idk why that one tag says freeform :/, look at me using the fancy dancy safehouse tag, maybe?? - Freeform, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyalys/pseuds/ladyalys
Summary: They stood like that for a while, wrapped around each other in the kitchen with memories floating in the air around them like bubbles on a summer day. A timer went off. Old thoughts shattered like glass, leaving space for new memories to be born in their place. Memories of a kitchen, of autumn leaves, of whispered assurances, and of a homemade dinner for two.Jon cooks for Martin, they get a little emotional, and then they talk about their childhood :)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	i always remember your smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxymandy3100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxymandy3100/gifts).



> Secret Santa fic for the lovely Mandy! I hope you're having a great Christmas and or holidays in general <3  
> Thank you to my friend Kiki for reading this over and thank you to the website scribens for telling me that I use too many commas.  
> The title is from Remember Your Smile by Enya.
> 
> TW for some mild bad childhood memories and some talk of fire

A cool breeze swept across the autumn landscape. Yellowing leaves shimmered in the trees above, some floating gracefully down to join the gold and orange patchwork quilt that Martin walked upon. He took in a deep breath, the crisp, slightly damp air filling his lungs with an aroma that smelled distinctly of fall.

Martin loved being in Scotland. The scenery was like one of those old paintings one could find in a charity shop--the kind that an elderly woman once kept behind the couch in her sitting room, but ended up in a dusty bargain bin after she moved on in one way or the other. Martin had always liked those types of paintings; it felt surreal to be practically living in one.

Even more surreal was the fact that this painting included Jon. Martin had obviously fantasized about living a simple life in some remote location with the man of his dreams, but to see that fantasy turn true was both amazing and baffling.

Sometimes he feared that it was only a dream, and he would wake one day to an empty bed in an empty flat. The leaves underfoot crunched with every step. Surely a dream couldn’t recreate a world in such detail, especially after he’d lived so long in a world of mental fog and forgotten faces.

Dream or not, Martin was having the time of his life. It was a little awkward for the first while but once they got used to each other, they had found a rhythm that worked. 

However, Jon had been acting strange for the past few days, which had thrown Martin off-kilter. At the library, at the store, even in the cabin, Jon had been disappearing and evading questions. It finally culminated in Jon asking for Martin to leave the cabin for about an hour.

“Just- Trust me. Please,” Jon had said with a small, pleading smile. 

Even though the situation gave him no small amount of anxiety, Martin knew how much trust meant to Jon. He would tell Martin about whatever secret Jon was harbouring when he was ready. 

Martin pressed his hands further into the pockets of his thin coat, lamenting his poor choice in outerwear as he continued on the path that would eventually lead back to Jon.

* * *

The temperature had dropped while Martin was out walking; as beautiful as it was out there, he was chilly and decided that Jon had had enough time to do his mysterious task.

He pulled open the creaky cabin door, announcing his arrival. Upon entry, he was hit with a smell that reminded him of childhood. It was a smell that he had forgotten, yet long-lost memories of a simpler time came bubbling up to the surface: a table set for celebration, faces smiling with genuine joy, a mother who still said _I love you, too_. 

Martin made his way into the kitchen, where both Jon and the source of the smell would be found. Jon was puttering about, a number of pans and plates and utensils--many of which seemed unnecessary--strewn across the counter.

Was Jon’s secret plan just to cook something? That didn’t exactly seem like something he’d try so hard to hide. “Jon, um, what’s- all this?” Martin asked with no small amount of confusion.

Jon’s head snapped up from his work. “Oh, Martin. I didn’t hear you come in. I- um. I made pierogies. Or, well, I tried at least. It was harder than I expected and they’re- not quite done yet.”

Martin furrowed his brow.

Jon continued, voice wavering with uncertainty, “Your family is Polish, well, your mum’s side is, and I just thought that you might like something from your, ah, heritage, I suppose. I’ve never made anything Polish so I just kind of guessed. The eye wasn’t being helpful at all, and I had to find a recipe online and I honestly don’t know if it will be any good, but I- I just thought that you might like it.”

Realization dawned on Martin. Jon had done all this for him. Martin wasn’t used to all the care that Jon put into everything. He wasn’t used to the way they connected, both in casual touches and in the more meaningful moments of intimacy. He wasn’t used to _Jon_. But he was certain that he could be, for Jon was a warm ray of sun on a cold winter’s day, the kind that made the snow sparkle and the frost more bearable.

Martin couldn’t stop himself from letting a few tears fall. Jon stood with concerned eyes, hovering hands, and a tongue that Martin was certain had a number of apologies on speed-dial. 

He pulled Jon into a too-tight embrace and buried his face into Jon’s shoulder as tears flowed more freely. Jon murmured soothing words as he brought his arms up around Martin, completing the connection.

Martin remembered a time when his parents were still together. Martin was young, not even a decade old. The gentle sound of silverware being placed carefully onto silk napkins. The rich smell of cooking food. A phone call. Harsh words. A sneer. The slam of a door. A meal eaten alone, cold food on cold forks in a cold room. A father who came home smelling of alcohol. An anniversary that would never be renewed.

That was the last time his mother had cooked anything for him. It was the last time anyone had ever cooked for him. Until Jon.

Martin was grateful for Jon. He always was. He could never find the words to properly say just how much everything means to him, so he hoped that Jon understood it all when Martin whispered a small _thank you_.

They stood like that for a while, wrapped around each other in the kitchen with memories floating in the air around them like bubbles on a summer day. A timer went off. Old thoughts shattered like glass, leaving space for new memories to be born in their place. Memories of a kitchen, of autumn leaves, of whispered assurances, and of a homemade dinner for two.

* * *

They settled down together on Daisy’s dusty sofa, having already eaten and washed up. Jon curled up close to Martin as he placed his head on Jon’s, both of them relishing the closeness.

“Thank you again, Jon,” Martin said softly. “I really do appreciate it.”

Martin could feel Jon’s smile in response. Jon had a tendency to not respond to thank yous; whether he didn’t know what to say, or he was just unfamiliar with them, Martin didn’t know. It didn’t matter, though, because Jon’s presence and his soft smiles were enough.

It was Jon who finally broke the amiable silence between them. “You know, I’ve never actually eaten a pierogi before. I just kind of assumed that if it showed up on the list of _easy Polish recipes that any beginner can make_ , then you’d’ve been familiar with them.”

“I mean, I’m really not an expert on Polish cuisine. Mum used to cook a lot back when my dad was still ‘round.” Martin looked away and scrunched up his face, trying to remember more. “That was a long time ago, so I don’t _really_ remember what exactly it all tasted like.”

“Did my pierogies at least _kind of_ taste like they’re supposed to?” They had ended up being a bit more… well done. Martin wasn’t sure if that was Jon’s fault or just because he ended up being more distracted by Martin’s presence at the end. 

Martin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They weren’t... the best, per se. I don’t have a lot to compare them to, and I’m pretty sure that your first-time pierogies aren’t going to be comparable to a tried and true recipe by a native of Poland.”

“Considering that it’s been, god, two- three years since I last actually cooked a meal, I think I did rather well.” Jon puffed himself up, in the way that a particularly proud cat might.

Martin snorted. “Very admirable. Maybe next time we can combine forces and the two of us will manage to make one slightly-above-average pierogi.”

Jon opened his mouth as though to speak, but no words came out. He stared up at Martin as if he had hung all the stars in the sky. Jon’s face melted into a soft smile. “I’d love that,” he breathed, a little more enamored than was relevant to the situation. (Martin was positively delighted to discover just how sappy Jon was, and he relished every moment that Jon spent looking like a lovesick puppy receiving the first crumb of affection in ages.)

With an equally sappy grin, Martin tried to salvage the conversation. “You know, I tried making pączki for mum once back when, oh, I must’ve been about twelve or so.” His smile turned bittersweet. “The day before Ash Wednesday, I made a huge mess. Mum wasn’t very happy,” he laughed softly. “Even though they turned out pretty decent, she made sure I never tried anything so ambitious again.”

It was interesting how something that had been devastating at the time could be laughed at decades later. The older he got, the less certain things stung. Maybe one day, he and Jon would be old, and they could laugh together about their time at the Institute. 

Jon pulled away a bit from Martin so they could properly see each other's faces. “All my abilities in the kitchen are thanks to my grandmother. The moment I stepped foot in her house, I became her culinary apprentice. It took me longer to catch on than she’d’ve liked, but I eventually got to the point where she thought I was ready to prepare dinner on my own.” Humor filled his voice as he said, “In the middle of making dinner, I got distracted by god knows what, and the pan caught on fire. Needless to say, it was a _long_ time until I was allowed to use the stove on my own after that.”

“Oh my god, Jon,” Martin guffawed. “Of _course_ you set the pan on fire!”

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad! Only a little charred!”

“Only a little-,” he wheezed. “Jon, there is absolutely nothing you can say that will convince me you _didn’t_ eat a block of coal for dinner.”

“Martin!” Jon placed an affronted hand to his chest, drama coursing through his veins. “My grandmother said that it was just as good as the regular meal, even though it was a little, er, _rough around the edges_.”

“Either your grandmother was lying to you, or whatever you made isn't usually all that great.”

Jon paused, furrowing his brow. “It might be the second option. I can’t remember exactly what I tried to make, but I don’t think we ever had it again.”

“That was probably so you didn’t _actually_ burn your house down the next time you made it.”

Jon shrugged. “Wouldn’t be my first case of arson.”

Simultaneously concerned and amused, Martin’s mouth hung open as he exclaimed, “Jon?!”

“Didn't you do vaguely sketchy things when you were younger?” Jon looked genuinely confused, as though arson was a common event in every teenager’s life. 

Martin wasn’t a fan of fire; he never had been. He’d watched one of his neighbour’s flats burn when he was young. Fortunately, no one had died, but the screams and the horrible aftermath still haunted him sometimes. Maybe Jon was a casual pyromaniac, but Martin got shaky just using a lighter. 

“Uh, no?” His voice broke. He swallowed hard, banishing the memories of a burnt flat. “I dyed my hair without my mum’s permission a few times in high school, but that was just about the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done.”

“Haven’t even snuck out to go to a bonfire?”

“Jon, exactly what part about me makes you think ‘life of the party; can and will join a bonfire gathering’?”

“Bonfires just sort of-” Jon waved his hand about in an incoherent gesture “-happen. I thought it was a thing that everyone experienced.”

“What do you mean they ‘just sort of happen’?”

“I don’t know! The nebulous forces of teenage rebellion automatically form into a huge fire when too many angsty adolescents gather in one spot, that’s just- how it works.”

Leave it to Jon to put the collective lack of preservation instincts into words in the most ominous way possible.

“Jon,” he sighed. “I love you, but under no circumstances will I be attending any sort of bonfire event ever.”

Jon teasingly scrunched up his nose, as though Martin’s lack of desire for bonfires was the greatest inconvenience imaginable. His face melted into a smile, one of the ones that came much more freely than ever before. A simple quirk of the lips had once been a rare commodity, yet Jon’s joy was visibly abundant.

Martin feared that one day he wouldn’t be privy to that smile anymore. He carefully categorized every detail, placing the memory in a glass case in his mind.

And when the world finally ended, Martin thought back on the memories they shared. Walks down to the shore. Long nights spent both together and apart, but never alone. Thoughtful meals and gestures of love. A smile that Martin would never forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! If you liked it, add a comment! If I messed something up, please tell me! I want to be the best I can be, so if you see an error or something is misrepresented, don't hesitate to let me know :)  
> Have a rockin holiday season to everyone out there, I love y'all!  
> (fun fact: I wrote most of this while listening to Everywhere At The End Of Time by The Caretaker, which is a series of 6 albums about memory loss. It's not exactly the kind of thing you write fluff to, but here we are anyway)  
> Oh! Also say hi to me at @lady-alys on tumblr!!  
> -Gale


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